we're just lying to ourselves
by Captain Silence
Summary: Never in her wildest dreams did Emily Burke believe that she would be sharing small-talk with a Templar.


**A/N: This is the first contribution to a new series of one-shots set in the universe of my full-length fic: ****Assassin's Creed: Catalyst****. If you have not read that, than please go and check it out. Most of these will take place after the last chapter on that one but a few may be set in the beginning or middle. Please read and review. And as always, I do not own these characters. **

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**TITLE: we're just lying to ourselves **

**FEATURING: Emily Burke, Thomas Hickey **

**WHEN: Several days after the battle**

**RATING: T+; features sexual content **

**SUMMARY: Emily Burke is a full-blooded Assassin. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine she'd find herself having small talk with the drunkard of the Colonial Rite Templars. **

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we're just lying to ourselves

Emily Burke sat alone in the Green Dragon. Several days and nights had passed since Nukilik and Connor led the Assassins and Templars, side by side, into a naval battle against a man-o-war with the name The Drowned Maiden. The vessel had been captained by a one, Claire Scott, the niece of Haytham Kenway, Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite. No one, from either side, was quite sure what had transpired on the lower deck of The Maiden. The details that had been shared were few; all Emily knew was that there had been two captives and that only one had survived - Connor's father. She also knew that Claire had been killed, but she wasn't sure whether it was by Connor or Haytham's hand.

Even though the battle had been days ago, neither group had really gotten together to talk about what they'd gone through together. Somehow, fighting along side someone strengthened bonds, or - in this case - created one that was never there. Emily found that she wasn't afraid of being stabbed in the back, not anymore. If they had wanted to kill her, they'd have done it in the chaos of the fight. But neither Order had turned on the other, much to the surprise of both. Templars are filthy scumbags, Emily told herself every time she found herself relaxing around Connor or Thomas Hickey. But… A tiny voice in the back of her head always argued, perhaps these ones aren't as bad as the stories say they are?

She rubbed a hand through her tangled hair, glancing down at the thick bandaging around her right thigh. Abner had questioned her ability to walk normally after such a wound, though she fought to prove him wrong every day since the battle. It caused her more pain than she'd like to admit, and if she was being honest it was getting harder to walk without wincing. Nukilik and Abner had stressed that she needed to rest, but for Emily Burke resting was out of the option. She was an Assassin and she'd be damned if she had to be cooped up in some god forsaken room because of a little bullet wound.

Okay, fine. Not so little bullet wound.

She raised her tankard of ale to her lips and took a sip, setting it back onto the counter as the door to the inn opened. She spared a glance over her shoulder and grunted to herself as Thomas Hickey, drunkard of the Templars, swaggered in. His thin lips stretched into a grin when he spotted her and she turned back to her ale, grumbling under her breath at being spotted. She inched to the left when he plopped into the chair at her right, waving a hand for a drink. The bar attendant filled up a mug of ale and pushed it down the counter to Hickey, who caught it with the ease of one who was all too familiar with the hard liquor. He took a large gulp from the mug, watching her. She pretended not to feel his gaze on her as she sipped from her own mug.

"Fine night fer a drink," commented Hickey, leaning against the counter.

Emily pulled a face. "Every night is a fine night for a drink with you," she retorted and he gave a loud, full-belly laugh. She flinched away from the sound. It was far too loud for the peaceful inn around her. She favored him with a glare and turned back to her mug.

"Ain't that the truth!" he replied, tipping back his mug and downing more than half in one large gulp. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and returned his eyes to Emily's form. "'Ow's the leg?" he asked and Emily was surprised when she thought she heard a note of genuine curiosity in his tone.

She could have told him the truth, that it pained her every second of every day, but she didn't. She could have told him that she was terribly afraid of losing her ability to run across rooftops, but she didn't. She could have told him that she didn't want to rest because resting meant admitting that there was a possibility that she'd never run again, but she didn't. Instead she scoffed and brushed off his tone with, "It's fine."

Hickey snorted. "Ya ain't a good liah, y'know that, Burke?" He just grinned when her head whipped towards him. She hated how terribly amused he seemed when her mouth worked in strange ways to tell him off, but no words came out. He chortled quietly to himself, taking another gulp from his mug, his ale was almost gone. He knocked his mug against hers. "Gunna tell me the truth, hm?" he asked.

Emily hissed through her teeth, grinding them together. She didn't want to. She had half a mind to just get up and leave right then. Then she realized that if she did that then he'd see how bad her limp had become. He had her cornered. She shook her head, looking down at her mug and then at him. "I'm an Assassin, Hickey," she said, "running across rooftops and tackling you scumbags to the ground is what I do." She blinked, unsure of how that related to anything.

Hickey, however, seemed to understand. "You're 'fraid that'cha won't be able ta, right?"

She frowned, hating how easily he was able to decipher her words. "Yeah," she muttered out in reply. She hated how easy he made it for her to talk to him. She hated how easily he lounged about. She hated him with every single god damn fiber of her being. She also hated how easily it was to lose track of time when she was around him. She took a gulp from the mug and pulled a face as it burned on the way down. Fuck you, Hickey, she grumbled to herself, now your drinking habits are rubbing off on me.

She turned her eyes back to him and realized just how close they were sitting. His knee was nearly touching hers and when she turned their shoulders brushed. The pit of her stomach twisted. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, the wet smell of damp earth on his clothes. Emily looked at him, and he at her. Then she pulled away, got to her feet and stumbled. She straightened herself and cleared her throat.

"Goodnight," she blurted and hurried up the stairs as fast as her limp would allow her. His call of 'g'night' followed her up the stairs to the room she rented out. She closed the door and collapsed onto the bed, heartbeat racing beneath her shaking fingertips. What had nearly happened out there? Briefly the thought of, is this how Gillian and Connor feel when they're together touched her brain before she shoved it out angrily. She did not feel anything (no matter how small) for that drunken Templar!

A few hours later found Emily Burke still on the edge of her bed. She actually wasn't aware several hours had passed, as she'd been staring off at the wall opposite her in hopes of dashing all insanity from her thoughts. She was unable, however, and rose to her feet, wondering if she had drank more than she originally thought. She grunted as she pulled herself to her feet. She pulled her hair back and tied it, her heart beginning to race. In those hours, she'd realized that they were just lying to themselves and she wanted to stop.

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She showed up at his door a quarter past midnight. He had been expecting it to be Haytham with some oddball job to through his sleeping habits out of whack, though had been pleasantly surprised when it wasn't the aging Grandmaster but the ever lovely Emily Burke. She bit her lip when he opened the door and leaned his body against it. She wasn't wearing much, save for a thin tunic and men's trousers; typical Burke dress code.

She asked if she could come in and Hickey just opened the door wider in reply. He shut the door behind her and she stood in front of it, looking unsure of herself. He opened his mouth to question her (or perhaps tease her), but the words on his tongue never got off for next thing he knew she was the only thing that mattered. Her arms were around his neck and her lips were on his. She tasted like alcohol and he suspected that he did as well. Walking her backwards, he pressed her back against the door, sliding his hands down her waist and then up beneath her shirt.

Emily responded well to his fingers sliding up her curves. Her frame arched closer to him and a smirk worked it's way across his lips, which were still pressed fervently to hers. He broke the contact between their lips, sliding his down her throat, grinning with satisfaction at the gasp that exited her lips. He slid his hands to her legs and brought them up. She understood and straddled his waist, tightening her arms around him as he ducked his head to slide his lips across her collarbone and down towards to the dip of her cleavage.

He carried her to the bed at the corner of the room and laid her back against it. He looked down at her, taking in the glow in her eyes, the rapid breaths she took and the flush of her cheeks. She propped herself up on her elbows and kissed him, moving one hand to cup his face. The kiss was passionately, deep and it betrayed her desire to continue this confrontation. So, he happily relented and kissed her back with the same desire.

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The morning found the Templar and the Assassin tangled in a mess of limbs on his bed. Emily's head was nestled against the crook of his shoulder and his arm was loosely slung across her bare waist. A bird chirped outside the window and Emily moaned, turning over and pushing her face into the bed, breathing in. It smelled of alcohol and must and - Emily shot bolt upright, clutching the sheet to her chest, ignoring the burst of pain that rolled through her leg.

Beside her, Hickey grunted out a snore and turned over, his arm dangling over the side of the bed. She punched him in the shoulder hard enough that he flipped off the bed and landed in a naked heap on the floor. "Whatthehell?!' he blurted, rubbing his head. "Ya go'n have sex wit' me then ya wake up and push me outta me own bed? No 'onder you ain't got no one."

Emily smirked despite her desire to tell him off. There was no use denying what had happened the night before, and now that she remembered it she didn't want to forget it. "Surprised you remember, you were quite drunk," she purred, laying onto her stomach and looking down at the heap that was Thomas Hickey.

"If ya think I forget, I'd be more than happy t'show ya again," he grinned cheekily and she shook her head.

"You're a Templar."

"And ya ain't," he replied, sitting up straighter and giving her a kiss. She wanted to push him away and discuss their different roots, but the passion in that kiss stopped her in her tracks and she melted, teasing her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He chuckled against her lips and she wished she had the desire to smack him upside the head. She didn't, so she just deepened kiss.

Who cared if they came from separate Orders anyhow?


End file.
